The Eve
by TheDarklyGifted
Summary: starting in the Teen category, may move to mature, has dark themes.  Sarah is Seventeen, and trying to figure out what she is supposed to do after the Labyrinth.  Something keeps telling her she's not where she's supposed to be.  Then someONE proves it.


The Eve

"I'm sorry." She said into the phone, for what seemed the hundredth time that night; her voice hushed, and far too worn down for someone with just seventeen years behind her.

"But **why **Sarah? You still haven't told me. When you broke up with me today, you wouldn't tell me why. I know you wanted to give me some time before we had this conversation—I get it. But why won't you be honest with me now? You owe me an honest answer Sarah."

Sarah sighed slightly, and rolled over onto her back, leaning her head against the cushions behind her on the bed. She spared a glance towards the clock at her bedside and withheld a groan. They'd been on the phone for almost two hours now. Closing her eyes, she wanted to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but in this house, anywhere but in this situation—again. "Chris" she said pausing to make sure she had his attention, "I've been saying this for the past two hours. I need you to listen to me this time, because I will not say it again. I can't be with you anymore. It's not something you did wrong. You were. . . amazing to me. I just-"

"You just **what **Sarah?" he asked. But she could hear the coldness it his voice now. He was hurt, and trying desperately to hide it.

'Finish it.' The voice in her whispered harshly. Part of her almost didn't want to. She wished she could have spared him this, but "I just don't love you. I'm sorry." 'There.' She heard it, at last. The phone clicked off in her hand, and the familiar sound of the dial tone buzzed hollowly in her ear, reverberating through her mind and her empty chest.

She continued to lie on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She never quite knew what she was waiting for in these moments after they were finally able to leave. She knew it wasn't tears. She wasn't crying now, and she wouldn't be crying later. _The Titanic_ could still turn her into a blotchy-faced, weeping mess, but she couldn't muster a tear now, after breaking Chris's heart. She knew he would heal . . . eventually. They were teenagers, after all. He wouldn't wait for her until the world came crashing down around his ears.

She winced and grimaced at the unfortunate line her thoughts had followed. A half-remembered tune now drifted across her mind, and she sat up suddenly, pushing strands of dark mahogany brown hair out of her face. Her eyes traveled her room, seeking something—though she couldn't guess what—through a strangers eyes.

Remarkably little had physically changed since her time in Jareth's Labyrinth. Her room might have looked different to the casual observer, but it was all still there—just altered. The stuffed animals had long since migrated to Toby's room, books eagerly filling their space. Many posters remained. Her music box had found a home on her vanity, she had never been able to look at the thing the same again. The resemblance the little figurine bore to herself dancing around in the enchanted ballroom was. .. disturbing. She hadn't even noticed until about three days after she had returned. She had been looking around the room, thinking about a particularly frustrating algebra problem when her eyes seized on it.

It was rather strange to see it there, staring back at her looking as innocent as could be. She knew it couldn't be **from** the Labyrinth, she'd had it for what seemed like forever. When Sarah had casually asked her father where exactly the gift had come from, he claimed it was a birthday present from her mother sent to her when she was very small. Somehow, she didn't believe it. When pressed, her mother told her she may well have sent it to her, but couldn't recall exactly.

Paranoid, perhaps. But for Sarah the music box would always be a remembrance of the Labyrinth. As were many other things here. Random pictures of the Escher room decorated her own room. There were many of them, although she never cared to count, you couldn't look anywhere in the room without seeing one from the corner of your eye. And perhaps her biggest remembrance of all, hanging above her bed there was a picture jauntily hung, a picture —of a piece of cake.

Sarah breathed out a heavy breath and slid her hands up and down her delicate face, pausing to rub her tired eyes. Twenty minutes to midnight. 'I won't stay up this year.' She swore to herself 'I have a big test in French tomorrow, I don't have time to play with this tonight.'

She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep though, even if it hadn't been the eve it would have been hard, with Chris's guilt still raw and new between her lungs.

She got up and started preparing for bed anyway, allowing her thoughts to wander. It had been a long year since the Labyrinth. Long, and yet short too. Somehow she had been waiting for this day, the one year anniversary with many more to come. She had moved on . . . in a way. She had plans for her future. But somehow she hadn't needed a calendar to know what today was. She had been able to count the months. Eleven months until the first anniversary, her mind had whispered at first. Ten. Five. Three. One. Then the weeks. The days. And now here it was at last. She had lost more sleep in anticipation of this date than she cared to count. A lot had changed in the past year. . . kind of.

She had started dating for one. But when it rains, it pours. Before she knew it, Sarah had blown through more boys than she ever would have dreamed. Clumsily, with the first ones, something she hadn't forgiven herself for quite yet. To her, dating, or at least breaking up, was like open heart surgery. When it was done, there would be pain, no matter how skilled the doctor. But she hadn't known how to do heart surgery in the beginning; she may as well have approached the operating table with a sledge hammer.

Sarah pulled her creamy night gown over her head, and watched it fall down past her knees. She walked over to her bed, switched off the light and lay staring up at the ceiling. There was still some light coming in from under the door, reflecting strangely off of her mirror and onto the ceiling, the dancer from the music box silhouetted perfectly. She shut her eyes tightly and imagined the dancer spinning, feeling a strange longing rise in her breast as she did.

The Labyrinth. She remember her last moments there well, they were burned into her mind, and seemed carved into her eyelids. Every time she slept, she fell asleep to a montage of those precious minutes. It wasn't just the falling she remembered, oh no. It was the Escher room too and the song Jareth had sang to her. Only the occasional line or word, really. She had been more focused on other things at the time, to pay much attention to the song. _You starve and near exhaust me. . . your eyes can be so cruel. . . love without your heartbeat_ .

Sarah felt the weight in her chest grow as she thought 'I didn't begin dating until after I returned from the Labyrinth. . . but I may have managed to break my first heart before I left.'

The time passed slowly for Sarah, and when she opened her eyes to check on the time, she couldn't help it. She gasped. The clock read midnight, and with wide eyes she watched until the clock finally read 12:01. And though she would never admit it, even to herself, Sarah _ felt her heart crack. She wouldn't even allow her subconscious to call it 'broken'. . . just. . . cracked. Splintered a bit, like glass. But not broken.

She fell asleep that night, with dry eyes. But she refused to turn her face away from the clock. The irrational fear within her whispered that if she moved, a piece of her 'cracked' heart might just puncture her lung, and then she would die. In fact, she could feel the pressure there already, threatening. And so she lay perfectly, perfectly still, eyes shut tight.

Sarah fell asleep, but she would regret that for some time. The clock ticked on in her inattention. At 12:59, the dancer still silhouetted on her ceiling began to slowly turn. And then, almost hesitantly, the music box began to play. Had Sarah been awake, she would have recognized it not as the song from the Escher room, but from the ball room. **That** song, she could have sung every word too, and in fact someone very far away was doing just that. The clock—read 13:00.


End file.
